


5 Things James Bond Doesn't Know About Q, and 1 Thing He Does

by yours truly (abriefcandle)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arachnophobia, Basically Jon is a hot mess, Canon Asexual Character, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, F/M, Fuck the Web man, Gen, He/Him Pronouns For Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, James is an asshole, Movie: SPECTRE (2015), Movie: Skyfall (2012), No beta we die like archival assistants, Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Nonbinary R (James Bond), Only one actually, Other, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Q is Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Spiders, The War on Spiders, The Web - Freeform, They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, They/Them Pronouns for Nonbinary R (James Bond), Ugh, but he's also kinda trying, but still, but that's nothing new, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28475907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abriefcandle/pseuds/yours%20truly
Summary: Jon is Q. Jon is also Jon. This confuses James, a lot, because Jon is very weird.
Relationships: James Bond & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, James Bond & Q, James Bond/Madeleine Swann, James is forever alone, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, don't worry Madeleine doesn't stick around
Comments: 8
Kudos: 72





	5 Things James Bond Doesn't Know About Q, and 1 Thing He Does

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year's everyone! Wrote this all in one sitting to make it past midnight after getting a plot bunny earlier in the day. Why aren't there more Q is Jon fics out there? I feel like that should be way more common than it is. Anyhoo, here's to better luck for 2021. Enjoy!

007 doesn’t know what to make of the child sitting next to him on the bench—well, child in a relative sense. The brunet ought to be young, with his thin, scrawny build, short and oh so breakable, but his shipwrecked eyes, oceanic and couched in sunken bags, speak to the horror he must have witnessed, as do his deeply wrinkled brow and rapidly graying roots. More worrisome are the pitted scars littering every visible inch of his flesh, each one perfectly circular. Of the innumerable weapons and implements with which James Bond is proficient, he can name none that might have caused the strange scarring. That does not alter his immediate conviction that the child has been tortured.

Then, the child begins to speak: “It always makes me feel a little melancholy: a grand old warship, being ignominiously hauled away to scrap.” 

The brunet sighs, his shoulders slumping.

“The inevitability of time, don't you think?”

James bristles, but then, the brunet asks:

**“What do you see?”**

James’ eyes slip shut momentarily as a soft tingling sensation floods his body, like he’s on the edge of falling asleep, his mind drifting between the waking world and a dream, swaddled in safety—

_ Danger _ , James’ hindbrain screams.  _ Snap out of it! _

James does, all of his senses leaping to attention.

“A bloody big ship,” James bites out. “Excuse me.” Then, he moves to rise, fighting the urge to flee.

“007,” the brunet says, eyeing the agent curiously. James freezes. “I'm your new Quartermaster.”

A shiver runs down James’ spine. “You must be joking.”

He’s not.

It isn’t until Q turns to leave that James notices the tape recorder. It is a Monteverdi V130 in black and silver, sleek like he’d expect of Q but outdated, scratched in some places and dented in others.

Imperfect.

“You were recording this?” James growls, eyes steely.

“What?” Q frowns, his brows furrowing, and then glances around, his eyes eventually landing on the tape recorder. Then, Q sighs and lets out a low groan. “Goddammit, not again…Go away! Shoo!”

Q flaps a hand at the device. 

The tape recorder clicks off by itself and then vanishes.

James stares blankly at where it sat and says, “What.”

“What?” Q replies, raising an eyebrow.

“But,” James says, “the tape recorder?”

“What about it?” Q asks, tilting his head.

“It was there.”

“Yes,” Q agrees, adjusting his spectacles.

“And then,” James says slowly, “it wasn’t.”

“Yes.”

“And that doesn’t concern you?” James asks.

“I  _ am _ The...Quartermaster,” Q replies, as if that explains anything.

“I…” James stares at him. “Right. Of course. The Quartermaster.” 

_...What the actual bloody buggering fuck? _

Q turns to walk away.

“Wait,” James says. “What’s your name?”

Q stills.

There is a long silence.

“Sims,” Q says. “Jonathan Sims, at your service, 007. But please…” Q smiles back at James over his shoulder. “Call me Q.”

And then, Jon is gone.

“Make me disappear.”

Jon looks up from his laptop, pausing in his typing, and begins to wring his hands—no, he’s using his left to massage the mass of burn scars on his right, James realizes. Jon clenches and unclenches his long, spidery fingers. Now that James thinks about it, he’s only seen Jon write with his left hand. 

James narrows his eyes.

On the ring finger of Jon’s left hand is a simple golden band, and on the middle finger of the other is a plain black ring.  _ Damn _ , James realizes. 

Jon’s married and ace, and James somehow didn’t notice that until just now. 

“Um, may I remind you that I answer directly to M? I also have a mortgage,” Jon replies, “and two cats to feed.”

Does he now?

“Then I suggest you trust me,” James replies, smiling menacingly, “for the sake of the cats.”

James gives Jon’s wedding ring a long, obvious look.

Jon, to his credit, does not tense at the blatant threat to his spouse. He simply stares at James, unblinking. There is a brief flash of fury—the predator in Jon stirring—before it fades to amusement.

“I suppose you think yourself intimidating, Bond,” Jon replies, “but there are things far more frightening out there than Lonely men like you.”

James flinches from the darkness in Jon’s gaze.

“I will aid you this once,” Jon says. “Do not threaten me again. I will not be so generous next time.”

Then, Jon makes a show for their onlookers.

“I’ll send you a postcard.”

“Please don’t,” Jon replies.

James doesn’t. 

Instead, James mails Jon a jar of luxury silicone gel, for the scars. 

Jon is not impressed but takes the silent apology for what it is.

James rests a hand on Jon’s shoulder.

“Do one more thing for me. Then, you’re out,” James says. Jon raises an eyebrow but eventually sighs and nods, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Find out what you can from this.” 

The ring is a thick metal band with what looks to be an octopus engraved into it. As soon as Jon takes it, he freezes, his eyes glazing over.

“Q? Q? Q, are you alright?” James asks, shaking Jon. Jon doesn’t react immediately, but half a second later, he blinks, his eyes focusing on James. 

“...I really, really hate you right now,” Jon mutters.

“Thank you, Q,” James replies, his expression softening, and he pats Jon’s shoulder. Jon stumbles from the blow but catches himself, clutching the shoulder. James frowns. “You’re certain you’re well?”

“Fine,” Jon hisses. “Just...not that shoulder, Bond.”

“Why ever did you come in person?” James sighs. Then, he realizes. “Wait, you  _ flew _ here. In person.”

“Yes, I did,” Jon replies.

“You hate taking planes.”

“Who told you—” Jon begins, and then, his eyes glaze over again, and he scowls. “Moneypenny.”

“Did she lie?” James asks.

“No, no,” Jon sighs. “I’m not afraid of heights, or anything. It’s...I don’t get along with the Vast.”

“The Vast?” James asks, frowning. “Right.”

Jon flinches. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Classified?” James asks, squinting at him.

Jon just smiles.

The MI6 garage is empty of workers, and it doesn’t take long for Bond to figure out why.

Sitting behind a desk at the far end of the room is Jon, slumped over a keyboard, mumbling incoherently and drooling. His tie hangs loose around his neck, his shirt partially unbuttoned and rumpled, and his coat dangles limply from his chair. James snorts at the sight. 

As James approaches, he takes a good look at the desk. In addition to the stacks of laptops and carefully labelled USBs scattered about, there is a sparkly mug with yellow, white, violet, and black stripes that reads, “HE/HIM or THEY/THEM Only!” in a bold font filled with some sort of black tea long gone cold which Jon’s fingers are tightly wrapped around the handle of and his glasses. On his other side is a stack of briefings in a dozen different languages, five of which James knows but can’t speak and three of which he doesn’t even recognize, and a picture frame of Jon with a very tall man, both of them in tuxedos, surrounded by white flowers. James hums. So this is Jon’s husband, then?

And...dammit, the fucking tape recorder is back. 

James glares at it. 

It is a bloody tape recorder. It does not respond. 

Then, Jon’s sleeptalking intensifies: “No, no...Please, Martin, help me! Please I don’t want to See—”

James closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before gently shaking Jon by his good shoulder.

“Wake up, Q,” James orders. “Come on. Wake up.”

Jon blinks a few times, sniffling, and then rubs his eyes before groaning and massaging his forehead. Then, he squints up at James and mutters sleepily, “Hm...Bond? What are you doing here?”

Jon sits up and stretches his arms, his collar hanging away from his body to reveal a long scar across his neck, and at the sight of it, James can hardly breathe. Jon has had his throat slit. 

James may not know a lot about Jon, but his scars speak for themselves, James thinks.

“Good morning, Q,” James says. 

“I thought you’d gone,” Jon says, fumbling around for his glasses and eventually slipping them on.

“I had. There’s just one thing I need...” James eyes up the only car in the garage: Aston Martin.

“No,” Jon snaps, easily following James’ gaze. He stands and turns his back on James, instead pouring his tea mug out in the sink and carefully washing it.

“Q…” James breathes into Jon’s ear, and Jon rolls his eyes.

“None of that, 007,” Jon snaps. 

“Was worth a shot.” James shrugs, and Jon shakes his head.

“Hardly,” Jon says. Then, he admits, “Martin is my everything.”

“You love him.”

“I do,” Jon says.

“Then you understand why I’m asking…”

“Enough,” Jon snaps, whirling around to face him. “Your track record with women does not inspire me to trust in your love for Dr. Swann, nor in Dr. Swann herself.”

“You don’t get it,” James bites out. “This is my only chance.”

“But will you be happy running off into the sunset with her?”

“I…”

**“Will you be happy with Madeline Swann?”** Jon demands.

“I don’t know!” James snaps and then startles. “Don’t  _ do _ that!” 

Jon has the grace to wince but huffs, “Fine. Take it,” and grabs the keys to the Aston from his pocket before pelting them at James’ head. He catches them easily. “Why do I even bother anymore…”

James glares at him, and Jon glares right back, snapping, “Well, what are you doing standing there? Get the fuck out of my workshop!”

James flips him off but complies.

“This won’t end well,” Jon groans.

On the desk, the tape recorder clicks off and then vanishes.

It doesn’t end well.

James and Madeleine end up parting ways, James with a gun in hand and Madeleine with a bullet in her skull; it turns out she was in on her daddy’s dealings with Spectre after all, which Jon could’ve have easily told James—touching that damn ring had flooded them with so much information on her involvement they could hurl—if the jerk would have listened to them back at the hotel in Austria when they said they needed to talk privately instead of brushing Jon off. Admittedly, the dramatics over the Aston were an unnecessary touch, but MI6 needed to be able to track the wayward couple.

(Of course Jon Knew where they were, but justifying that Knowledge to M would have been difficult without GPS data to back them up. No, it was much easier for Jon to deal with Dr. Swann this way.)

James is reinstated as 007 and then proceeds to avoid Jon for six months because Jon was right.

Until, one day, the Incident happens:

It begins as any ordinary day does in Q Branch, with copious amounts of paperwork. Jon is bent over their desk, the Monteverdi before them, reading aloud, “Statement of 002, regarding her disruption of a New Year’s Eve celebration in Prague. Statement begins: I was in position on the rooftop of—”

Jon freezes.

Something is watching them, and it is not their patron.

Slowly, Jon lowers 002’s latest debriefing report and scans the room for the source of their unrest.

There.

In the opposite corner of the room, hanging from the ceiling, is a giant (not tiny at all) spider.

A spider?

Jon tenses, takes a deep breath, and then begins to hyperventilate. “Nospidersnobadspidersnono—” Gasping for air, they readjust their earpiece and smack a key on their laptop to call R.

“R, R, R, there’s...in my office, a-a-a—”

“Q?” R asks, pressing a hand to their own earpiece from where they are in their office, taking inventory of what little remains of the kit James has brought back from his latest mission, and where James is standing, listening to only half of the conversation.

“S-S-SPIDER!” Jon sobs, trembling. They crumple from their chair, curl up into a ball, and begin to rock back and forth on the ground, clawing at their bare forearms, their shirt sleeves rolled up, and digging into them with their uncut nails. 

The spider just stares at them blankly.

“Easy, Q,” R replies. This is not the first spider-induced panic attack Jon has had at the office. “I’m going to be right there. I just need you to breathe for me. Do you know where your meds are?”

“...S-S-Somewhere under all the paperwork on my desk?”

“Shite,” R groans. “I’m on my way right now. Just keep talking to me, and you’re going to be alright.” At this, R stands and shoves past James to rush down the hall to where Jon’s office is. James, horrified, follows hot on their heels. 

“Should we be calling Medical?”

“No,” R replies aside to James.

“And why not?” James hisses.

“If they’re still talking to me, then they don’t need to be sedated just yet.”

“That’s not reassuring,” James snaps.

“It wasn’t supposed to be,” R retorts.

“Mr. Spider is staring at me,” Jon sobs. “I can’t—I don’t want to be eaten. I don’t want to die, R!”

“I know, I know,” R replies. “We’re at the door now.”

“Don’t knock on it. You can’t knock on it! Mr. Spider will eat you like he ate Matt,” Jon sobs. “Oh God, Matt is dead. It ate him. Mr. Spider ate him, R—”

R opens the door and strides over to where Jon is curled up in a ball crying, carefully prying their nails away from their arms and holding their hands.

“R-R…!” Jon cries out, gasping desperately for air.

“I’m here, Jon,” R says, rubbing circles into their palms. “And I’ve even brought a big bad double-oh with me to protect us, right, Bond?”

“...Right,” James replies.  _ Protect them? _

“Who…?” Jon peers over at James. “007?” Jon’s brows furrow, and they say, “But you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Q,” James responds, recoiling.

“But you’ve been avoiding me,” Jon replies, looking up at him with wide, watery eyes, biting their lip. Then, Jon catches another glimpse of the spider and lets out a scream before burying themself in R’s side, shaking violently and muttering, “Nonono…”

“007,” R states, “you have a mission: Find and kill any and all spiders in this office.”

“...You’re kidding me,” James snorts.

“Does this look like a joke to you?” R snaps, gesturing to Jon’s state. “Is this funny?”

Jon continues to wail into R’s side. 

James just stares, not because of Jon’s episode but rather because the nail marks Jon had just clawed into their arms are already healing, the flesh knitting back together right before his eyes.

_ Again, what the actual bloody buggering fuck? _

“What...What are you?” James breathes, and R traces James’ line of sight before letting out a string of curses. 

Jon frowns.

“The Quartermaster,” Jon replies. “Duh.” Then, they zone back out, eye glazing over.

“Look,” R sighs, running a hand through their hair. “Either be helpful or get out.”

Be helpful. Right. James can do that.

James kills the spider barehanded before excavating Jon’s meds from beneath all their paperwork. Then, James and R help Jon to a couch in the break room where they can sleep off the dosage.

And like a good bodyguard, James sits, a sentinel, beside them until they wake.

“Mm…” Jon groans. “...Bond?”

“You’re safe, Q. Go back to sleep.”

“Mkay.”

There are a lot of things that James Bond doesn’t know about Q, but the one thing that he does know is that the boffin isn’t going to be left to face the spiders all alone anytime soon, if he has anything to say about it. It’s a mission, after all, and not one that he intends to leave unfinished.

(Even if that means committing spider genocide.)


End file.
